The First Victor of District 12
by Shinobi Saru Corp
Summary: I might be the first Victor from District 12, I might have won the 16th Hunger Games, but I didn't survive because I was brilliant. I didn't survive because I was strong. I didn't survive because I outwitted the game. I won because I wanted to leave. And there's only one way to leave the games. Kill or get killed.
1. Prologue

**_THE FIRST VICTOR OF DISTRICT 12_**

 ** _Written by Tora-chan_**

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games in anyway. All rights belong to Suzanne Collins, I'm just here to write a fanfic.

Rated: T(+) for violence.

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 **The First Victor of District 12**  
 _ **Prologue**_

I awake, my head pounding, the light shining through the windows. The light only makes my head feel even worse. I try and remember what happened last night. I had drowned myself in a bottle of whisky, is what I had done.

I fall out of my bed, the burning sensation in my stomach rising. I need substance in my stomach before the last bit of liquid in me leaves. And the fiery liquid wouldn't be leaving out my behind, is all I knew.

The image of whisky coming out of my mouth bores into my brain, and spurs me on to the kitchen, where I crash around in search of food. My body hurts and my joints creak. I have given up count how old I am.

It did not take me long to seize some old bread and cram it into my mouth. I chew ferociously fighting down the urge to vomit. As I chew, I look outside the window. I remember why I drown my sorrows in whisky. I did it yearly. To avoid pain. Like it really helped. The day when I have to watch two sobbing children torn away from their families, be put in an arena and be killed. Two sobbing children torn away, trained, put in an arena, and killed. And repeat…

And I had to witness it. Every year. I have to train these two children, only to watch them being slaughter for the pleasure of the Capitol. In many ways, mentoring was almost as bad as being in the games.

I hate myself. I hate watching the children die. Most of all, I hate it when I can't help myself and get attached to some of the kids. Only to watch them die. Their screams will always haunt me. So loud and full of anguish.

The thought of the children dying makes me tighten my grip on the bread. I throw up despite the bread. Washing my mouth, I stare hatefully into the sink, whishing I didn't make it out alive. I push back salt and pepper coloured hair out of my face, as I think dark thoughts.

I get ready for the day. The horrible day. It's nearly two before I make my way to the Hall of Justice. I pass the children who have faces of terror. There is a silence that can only be described by one word. Fear. It lingers in the air, like a black sweaty cloak, engulfing the District.

I pass by children who gaze at me with haunted looks in their faces, like that's our mentor. That's the woman who will in the end be the reason why we die. I refuse to look at the kids as I make my way along the dirty street. I refuse help up on the stage. I hear whispering among the people. I ignore them. I'm the crazy woman who only manage to win the games by a terrible price. I'm the crazy woman who won the games, because I was driven with craze to get out of the games. My instinct was to survive. And I did. I won the game. Olivine Gneiss, otherwise known as Scout, was the First Victor of District 12. I should be proud. But I wasn't. And I'm not proud. I betrayed all I loved to get where I am now. And now I am being punished for what I did to win. What the Capitol and everyone else saw was the 16th Annual Hunger Games, where you take twenty four kids and only one comes out. And one did come out.

I take my place. There's a long speech, but all I see is children, waiting in horror. Who would be chosen? It could be any of them.

I suddenly have flashbacks of my own game. Unwanted memories flood my mind. When I was reaped. When I was pampered. When I was put in an arena. When I was force to do the unthinkable.


	2. 1

_**1**_

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My hands are smarting with the pain of the rocks. I try and ignore the pain, but I feel my scabs crack open again to let loose fresh blood. It's not like anyone wants rocks anyway. It is coals they want. But the labor of lifting rocks has made me strong and I'm thankful for the hard work. But I am still angry at my hands as blood gets on the rocks.

"Scout, Scout, Scout…." I hear my father say. I turn around to see his slightly amuse face, slightly full of pity. "Those scabs not healing?"

I say back in a growl, "No. I thought I'd get calluses, but all I'm getting are scabs that just keep reopening!"

I wait for father to say that it takes years for good calluses and that I need to just be patient. Well, I've have been lifting and searching for rocks for months now. I look down at my hands. They're big and ugly. I don't lie and I'm not going to lie, I'm not pretty. Years of working with my dad on rocks has left me burly, tough, and grimy. But I don't complain, because so many girls my age don't have the strength I do. I'm lucky to be stocky, even if I am just as poor as the next person down the street.

Father rips a bit of cloth off and ties my hand tightly, and I wince as he makes knots. "Let's take a break," He says softly.  
He hands me a piece of dry bread and hands me a flask of water. I guzzle some water down and then I tackle the bread. I take in the sunset, and inhale the dry air.

My father is a geologist, the job isn't near as popular as mining. The geologists in District 12 are hardworking, who don't make a whole lot. Depending on the rocks we find, we will trade the rocks. Limestone is rare, since it's usually found in moist watery areas. What's even rarer is if the limestones becomes marble. Other rocks that trade well can be turned into making glass. Some rocks can be grounded and made into pots, and the pots can be traded for something good. One pot could be traded for five rabbits or three loaves of bread heavy with nuts. Coal miners and geologists often worked together to make something special to trade.  
I finish the bread and he says to me, "Let's go back home. Tomorrow we'll only have half a day to work."

My heart drops a little, and the bread settles in my throat, so I was it down with some water. Tomorrow is Reaping Day for the 16th Annual Hunger Games. My mind quickly races to how many times I've add my name into the pool. Ten? Twelve? My heart skips a beat. The thing that made my mind race is I forgot how many times I add my name to get tesserae.

I stand up shakily and pickup my huge bag of rocks and hoist it over my shoulder. I forget about the pain, because my mind can only think of tesserae and the reaping. Father takes his sack of rocks. We take them home, clean them off before we try and trade. We have to make them look presentable. Just like hundreds of children have to look presentable for reaping.

We descend the rocky area. There isn't a whole lot of rock, there's mostly forest, but there are a few rocky areas where father and a few other geologists work. We take home good rocks, clean then, and then the next morning, we trade. Then we repeat, gather, clean, trade.

I barely remember the trip back home. I barely remember helping my dad clean and scrub rocks. I barely remember the pain in my back, hunch over and toiling hard. I barely remember the meal my mother set before me. I barely remember eating, I barely washing my bloody hands, I barely remember getting into my night clothes, and I barely remember slipping into bed and tucking the sheets under chin. I did remember the bad nightmares. The fear of being reap. I have seen children being hauled up, children gone into hysteria, screaming and shrieking. The fear that it might happen to me.

I toss and turn all throughout the night, but I am awaken by father. We have to trade, we look for more rocks. Ever since father had a stroke, mother feared it might happen again. She did work with father, while I continue in school. I drop out a year early from graduating to help father, that way mother could stay home and work. Mother has a bad back and cannot work long hours bent over.

I silently follow father to the kitchen, where he silently hands me a piece of dry meat. I am still groggy with sleep, but I eat the meat and then I change into work clothes. I will change into a nice outfit for reaping when I get home.

Father is ready to leave. It is still dark outside, the stars still twinkle in the sky. But the Hob opens early and closes late. We trade our good rocks there for game. I usually hate the Hob, but today the Hob seems like the only friendly place other than my home. I am scared for today, and I cannot help but tremble as I carry the heavy load of acceptable rocks. We do not speak as we make our way to the Hob. The only sounds I hear are the clunking and scrapes of the rocks rubbing against each other, and the occasional howl of a dog.

Father walks past burly scary men in the Hob, I trail closely behind him, not looking into the eyes of these men. They are not to be trifled with. You do business, you don't talk much. Mind your own business, and they'll leave you alone.  
The trading is important for me to watch, but I don't pay any attention as father show a big man his rocks. Reaping… reaping reaping reaping reaping…

I begin to breathe fast, through my nose. The thought of reaping makes me sick. I force myself to stay calm by feeding myself lies. I will not get pick as Tribute. I will not. I will not. I repeat the words in my brain, until I've make myself sick on the words.

I calm down and turn my attention to father and the man. But they are done trading and father now has a rabbit in his hand, his face is angry and I say, "Did he not like our choice of rocks today?"

He nods and does not say anything back, but beckons me to follow him. It's time for more labor. We labor for hours. Well into the night somedays, just to go back home and clean the rocks we find. All that work just to get a rabbit, maybe a rabbit and a squirrel if we are lucky. I am mad. I hate this work. Nobody wants rocks, do they? It's tiring work with little payoff.

We go back to the rocky area and begin to look for good rocks. I smash beetles with rocks as I look. Father tells me not to smash the beetles with the rocks, otherwise I will have to clean those rocks with beetle guts. I don't listen and continue to crunch beetles against rocks. I pretend the beetles are people from the Hob. _Crunch_. I pretend the beetles are people from the Peacekeepers. _Crunch_. I pretend they are people from the Capitol. _Crunch_.

I don't remember how long I sit there, gathering rocks and crunching beetles, but by the time we take a break, the sun is high and the air is dry. I don't know what time it is, but I know I'll have to go home soon and get ready for reaping. Father packs rocks into a mess bag and hands it to me. "Take this home. Your mother should have your meal ready. I can't come to the reaping today." I take the bag silently, and father grabs my hand and pulls me into a big hug. I embrace him and I don't want to ever let go. "I'll see you tonight, Olivine."

Olivine. He calls me Olivine. Rarely do my parents call me Olivine, my given name. Scout is my nickname that almost everyone calls me by. Some might even be shock if I told them my real name isn't Scout.

He lets me go, which makes me sad, and makes my heart drop a little. I tighten my grip around the sack of heavy rocks. I start to make my way down the rocky slope and force myself to say, "See you tonight…"

I feel alone walking back home. I suddenly feel very small and tense. I bite my lip until I taste something salty in my mouth. I am scared. I begin to walk a little fasting, trotting down the slope, but careful not to trip and lose the precious rocks. Shifting the weight to my other shoulder, I try and whistle tuneless songs to keep me company.

Once I reach home, I am greeted by the fine smell of food. Mother says out loud to me, "Eat your meal before it gets cold!" I walk pass the kitchen and into a little room where I put down my bag of rocks. The room is small, smells of earth and rocks. There is no window, only a dim light and a floor that is cover in rock dust and grime. I wish I could stay here and clean rocks. I rather clean a million rocks with beetle guts all over them than go to Justice building today. I leave the room and go sit in my usual spot and play with my thin soup. Despite always being hungry, my appetite is gone today. But I force myself to drink the thin soup with small chunks of vegetables. I can feel anxiety gnawing away in my stomach.

Mother walks into the room, hold a white dress. It's a few years old, and I know it will be a tight fit for my stocky body. Mother dresses me up and washes grime away from my face. She smooths out my hair and steps back to look at me up and down. I know I am hideous, but she gives me a small smile. I don't smile back. She gives me a hug and tells me to go ahead and go, she will be coming later.

I leave my home, and walk out in a tight dress that is too short for me. I see other kids also walking to Justice Hall. A girl I know comes up to me and says, "That dress again?" I glance out of the corner of my eye to see her dress. It's a baby blue color with ruffles.

"Reaping only takes a few minutes. I'll change afterwards," I say, a hint of annoyance can probably be detected. When talking about reaping, we never bring up that one of us could be reaped. We try and ignore it as best we can.

I take my place by some girls my age. I stick out like a sore thumb, taller and bigger than most of the girls, but I try and ignore it. The routine begins. Peacekeepers take their spots. The escort of District 12 is a tall woman with long acrylic nails, each nail is coloured differently. She wears a huge lime green dress with random poofs everywhere. I try to ignore everything. I try to ignore the speech. It will only make me more nervous. I think of things that will calm me down. Rocks. Looking for rocks with father. Drinking mint tea and eating bread on break. I have done this several times. If I survive this year, then I have one more Reaping Day to endure next time. If I survive that, I'm done.

I see escort named Lizbeth smile big. "Ladies first!" She said in a sticky sweet tone. I am now sweating. I clinch my hands tight. I start to breathe fast. _It won't happen. It won't happen. It's never me._ Lizbeth saunters over to the big bowl of name and drops her hand into it to pick a name. I'm now biting my lip so hard, blood is flowing into my mouth, but I ignore it. My legs are locked and my body is ridged. I always do this. Every year I end up hurting myself due to being so wound up. Lizbeth walks back to the microphone.

I _t's not me it's not me it's not me…_ my stomach is doing flips like it always does every year. Lizbeth clears her throat. There's a horrible silence. Who is be the unfortunate girl? Two words form and come out of her throat, and my anxiety gets the better of me as I fall to the floor. My ears ring with the name she said.

"Olivine Gneiss?" Lizbeth repeats again, but I barely listen. I'm dizzy and feel sick, like I might throw up the soup. She calls my name again and again, and the girls around me part away from me. I'm still on the ground, something trying to get out of my throat. I am aware of two peacekeepers by my side, hauling me upwards onto my feet. But my legs buckle again, and this time when rough hands grab me, they're dragging me to the stage. Terror seizes me and I let loose the sound in my throat.

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A/N: Thanks for reading! Since we're all writers here, I was wonder if I did okay at the pace and the first person present style writing? Also if you have advice and tell me how I can improve, thy comments would be really helpful! Haha, I'm actually a little self conscious :P


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